The Christmas Ponies

By Nicole A. Musmanno

Every year a new toy comes out that every child must. This toy sits proudly at the top of their Christmas Wish List, in slightly larger letters, underlined and starred. These fad toys come and go, collecting dust in the corner once the next generation of even better toys comes out. Yet one gift has reappeared year after year on countless lists. Little girls and boys ask for this gift. They beg their parents. They sit on Santa’s lap at the local mall and whisper into his ear what they most desire, but Santa never seems to remember to bring the gift down the chimney and leave it under the tree.

Perhaps it is because this gift might pluck the ornaments off the tree in an effort to see what is edible. It might spill Santa’s milk and stain mom’s cream-colored carpet. It most certainly would not stay put under the tree, in truth it would not fit under the tree. It would roam the house, disturb the family dog and send the family cat packing (after all, the introduction of the dog last year at Christmas was insult enough). It would appreciate the fruit bowl and the apple pie reserved for dessert the next evening. Its replica sits quietly under the tree in place of the real thing, the Christmas Pony.

Yet for the lucky few, the Christmas Pony actually appears on Christmas morning. For these children they are delighted with the present. They are also admired and envied at the same time. Other children are jealous and excited since they can at least ride their friend’s pony since Santa yet again forgot to shove a pony under their tree. The lucky child might suffer the stigma of “spoiled” even if the child actually worked hard to prove that they deserved the pony.

I am one of those children, though in truth I actually discovered my pony on Christmas Eve Day in a thick Sonoma fog. But I should go back to what led to the gift.

My parents, after a long search had already bought me a pony, Piper, a lovely bay Welsh/Arab cross with a “who me?” expression worn innocently on his perfect blazed face. Piper and I got along on his property, but when we got him home we me the real Piper. For starters, Piper at the age of six still lived with his mother in a pasture and was allowed to roam the property as he pleased. He took any form of reprimand as a deliberate affront against his right to rule the barn. The first time my sister and I tried to take him to the neighborhood arena it resulted in my sister standing in front of him pulling while I got behind and pushed (a true Thelwel moment). My father found us teary eyed and using child swear words such as “stupid pony”. Of course the minute my father took the reins Piper put the “who me?” expression on his face and walked down to the arena. Riding Piper was no better. Though he actually never threw me, he did get my sister off many times, Piper would do nothing for me. I never fell, he never moved. With my little six-year-old dreams dashed about my first pony I wanted to give up. At the same time my sister had developed a love affair for the sprite that took joy in leaving her sitting in mid-air while magically he appeared at the other side of the arena. She was hooked and I was heart broke.

Yet things always turn out as they should.

As the woman who cut my hair into a manageable pixie cut that only my mother liked, listened to me bemoan Piper, she commented she had a great pony sitting in her pasture getting fat. Apparently the little mare, a 12.3h Welsh/Quarter Horse, had done it all, western, english, parades, jumping, pulled a cart and wrote satire in her spare time (she would if she could have). I begged my mother to let me see her. She agreed but promised nothing. After all I already had a pony and if I wanted another one, Piper had to go. For once in my young life Heather came to my rescue. She wanted Piper. My mother, trapped, had to take me to see the pony, Piper had a new rider and I had renewed hope.

PIA, actually spelled Pia, was the stuff of children’s Cowboy and Indian fantasies. She did not look like a hunter; she had an apple butt and a short, stout neck. PIA’s worse offense, she was Paint, when it was not fashionable. To top it off her white markings were not the stuff of artists’ paintings. She had a white spot the size of two hands on the hip of her round, brown rump. Her mane donned a white streak, all four legged were white past the knees and her tail, actually very pretty, mixed black and white in perfect harmony.

My parents continued to keep me in limbo over PIA. I do not remember all their excuses but I remember much arguing and pleading. Now I realize they had made up their minds immediately. PIA had spunk but stood closer the ground than Piper, she had sensibility and experience, and I lacked both of those qualities. In the end it was a no brainer.

Christmas Eve Day, I roller-skated down our steep road we, enjoying a Sonoma white Christmas in the form of thick white fog. The type of fog a person could actually bite into and tear off a piece. How from one hundred yards away, I saw a white patch through the dense fog I do not know? The fact is I saw it. I ran, still in my roller skates down our gravel driveway, skated down the barn aisle, past my stunned parents and into PIA’s stall. Forgetting my brakes, I grabbed the only available thing to stop my inevitable crash into the stall wall, PIA’s neck.

I cried. I kissed her black, velvet nose and kept asking if she really was my pony. My parents must have been so crestfallen to have me wreck their Christmas surprise, but they played it off well. They chided me for snooping and that meant I could not have PIA because it was against the rules to sneak around and find our presents before Christmas. I begged them to let PIA be the one present I opened on Christmas Eve, a family tradition. In the end, I kept my pony. They did put a bow around her neck in the morning and as part of my present, I got to feed and muck her stall before I got to open presents on Christmas morning. I think I never mucked a stall better and with more glee than that morning. I had my Christmas Pony and Heather had her Christmas Pony, she received Piper. I guess there was two in one family who got their Christmas Pony that morning. To our credit we worked hard for those ponies. We cleaned stalls even in the cold, braving the meanest bantam rooster (that’s another story) that guarded the manure pile. We joined Pony Club and for me PIA led me down the path of horse addiction. For Heather, Piper was her only love.

Nicole and PIA at local hunter show. We look thrilled.

Were we spoiled? Yes, but never ungrateful for the Christmas Ponies we received that foggy morning on Christmas 1984.